


If Tomorrow Never Comes

by EAU1636



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explosions, Fluff, Ignoring whatever is supposed to be going on in canon at this point, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide, Time Loop, eventually, sorry the time loop ended up more angsty than originally intended
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636
Summary: There was a bland sameness to the morning, the usual sights and sounds on the way to work, the commonplace banter at the station that Morse only half paid attention to.It wasn’t until he sat down at his desk that an odd feeling that had been niggling at the back of his mind all morning formed into a cohesive, impossible thought.Surely this had all happened before.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Fred Thursday, Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 45
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What are days for?  
> Days are where we live.  
> They come, they wake us  
> Time and time over.
> 
> -Philip Larkin

The first February 2nd, 1967 was not worth repeating. The Monday morning dawned frigid and dreary. The brutally cold winter had felt endless, the sun seemingly gone into permanent hibernation.

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. He fumbled to press it into silence with eyes still closed, then lurched out of bed, stubbing his toe on the nightstand and cursing. He pushed the offending piece of furniture further back against the wall and then rushed to get dressed and ready.

It was in every respect an ordinary day. Thursday had driven the car last night to visit some elderly aunt and was driving himself in to work, so Morse made his way to the station on foot, the brittle cold turning the air into a weapon, piercing his cheeks.

It was a slow day at the station, even crime seemed to have settled beneath the light dusting of snow on the ground. The hours were filled with phone calls and paperwork and absolutely nothing of interest.

At lunchtime Thursday called Morse into his office, to rehash the details of a case they’d worked that had just gone to trial.

Thursday set a parchment paper package down on the desk in front of him.

“Now, let’s see what’s on offer today?”

“Cheese and pickle,” Morse muttered.

And, as always, he was right.

Late in the afternoon the station morphed into an arena as everyone, save one scowling constable, crowded around the television to shout at a football match. Morse wasn’t even sure who was playing, but sighed dramatically at all the racket while trying to make a phone call.

Their shift at the station over, Morse headed to the pub with Strange and Jakes. The night was uneventful, apart from Strange managing to spill drinks all over the table, soaking Jakes’ and Morse’s suits, bringing an end to a dull evening.

It was a day destined to be forgotten entirely. Nothing of note, the sort of day that’s more annoyance than gift, made to be gotten through rather than enjoyed.

Jakes would be picking up Thursday in the morning, so Morse walked home and had a few generous helpings of scotch while listening to a record. Then he went to bed and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. Morse reached over to quiet it and then dragged himself out of bed.

“Fucking fuck!” he shouted, as his toe made contact with the bottom of the nightstand. He shoved it back against the wall yet again. How had the bloody thing moved since yesterday?

He limped to the bathroom and got dressed and ready, then headed out the door.

There was a bland sameness to the morning, the usual sights and sounds on the way to work, the commonplace banter at the station that Morse only half paid attention to.

It wasn’t until he sat down at his desk that an odd feeling that had been niggling at the back of his mind all morning formed into a cohesive, impossible thought.

Surely this had all happened before. Not in the way of one day being much like the next, the well worn familiarity of unremarkable days, the general monotony of life. This was different, because this day was too much the same, eerily so.

He hadn’t noticed in his sleepy haze this morning, but he had put on the same suit as yesterday, the one Strange had so gracefully spilled ale all over. Except it was perfectly clean, not smelling a bit of booze. And surely last night he’d left the suit rumpled on the floor, not hanging in his wardrobe where he’d found it this morning?

Morse looked around the office. He had a habit of noticing things without knowing he was noticing them. And now that he really looked he realized that Thursday also had on the same suit as the day before. So did Strange and Jakes and the rest of the lads.

Morse’s brow furrowed in confusion and disbelief. What in the hell was going on?

He shook his head as if to rid himself of this insane flight of fancy and opened the folder on his desk. Inside were the case notes and booking forms he’d filled out yesterday. But they were no longer filled in and typed out. Yesterday’s work on the file had vanished as if it had never been done.

Morse’s fingers moved to tug on his ear, the thumb of his other hand anxiously clicking his pen.

Had he somehow only dreamt he’d already done this? A dream so real the lines between waking and sleeping life had blurred? Or was he losing his damn mind?

He tried to quiet his frantic, circling thoughts and set to work completing the paperwork again, unsure what else to do.

He tried to tune out the rest of the station, the phone calls that he knew full well he’d already heard the day before, the inane conversations and idiotic jokes he’d already been annoyed by yesterday.

He told himself it was his imagination. He told himself it was simply deja vu. He told himself he’d damn well better believe the lies he was telling himself because the alternative was too terrifying to consider.

Thursday called him into his office at lunchtime, as he had the day before. Morse sat down and Thursday looked at him with a worried expression.

“You alright? Looking a bit peaky.”

“I’m fine,” Morse retorted, nervously gripping the arms of the chair. This conversation, so far at least, was a variation on yesterday’s. But what exactly did that mean?

Thursday set his parchment paper wrapped sandwich down on the desk.

“Let’s see what’s on offer today?”

When Morse didn’t reply, Thursday looked over at him questioningly. Unlike Morse to miss a chance to show he knew something.

Morse felt Thursday’s gaze on him and looked up.

“Luncheon meat,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Thursday’s face creased in concern. “Talk sense,” he chided, with surprise. “It’s Monday.”

Morse’s stomach dropped. He felt as though he might be sick, his heart beating uncomfortably fast and his palms slicking with sweat.

He couldn’t have dreamt a whole day. Some details maybe, but not an entire day. It had been Monday yesterday. And yet somehow it was Monday today. He must be going insane, what other explanation was there?

“Have you noticed anything... odd today sir?”

“Apart from you looking like you’ve just seen a ghost?” Thursday replied lightly.

“No,” Morse’s voice was firm as a rough shake round the shoulders. “I mean... What do you remember about yesterday?”

“Nothing I want to dwell on. Count yourself lucky you haven’t married into a family with an Aunt Adelaide.”

“You don’t remember,” Morse was cautious now, each word a step across a barely frozen lake, “any of this... coming to the station... sitting here talking?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Thursday asked, his voice edged with worry.

“No, sir, I... I think I must be ill.”

Thursday’s face registered actual alarm. Morse always insisted he was fine, even while knocking on death’s door.

“I could call DeBryn to come round and take a look at you?”

“No. I think I’ll just go home, if that’s alright.”

For a moment Thursday appeared completely dumbstruck. Morse was saying he was too ill to work and electing to go home early. It was as if the fabric of the universe had torn, halting the fixed motion of the stars.

Maybe it had.

“Of course, if that’s what you want. I’ll drive you.”

“There’s no need. I think the fresh air will help. I’ll walk and then rest once I’m home.”

Thursday seemed reluctant to let Morse go on his own. “If you’re sure. I’ll give you a call in the morning and see how you’re doing. You be sure and eat something and get some rest.”

Morse only nodded, and walked out of the station without even grabbing his jacket.

He was numb to the cold on his way home, too trapped inside his own head to notice much of anything around him. He did stop to buy a paper. The date stared out at him mockingly. Monday, January 2, 1967.

He was barely inside his flat before he set to work getting the drunkest he’d ever been, no easy feat.

Before the world got too blurry, he completed the paper’s crossword puzzle, proving to himself that even if he was going crazy, at least his mind was still capable of that much.

He poured himself another measure of scotch and soon finished off the bottle, desperate to escape, to reach the bliss of unconsciousness and wake tomorrow to a new day. His last thought before passing out at the table was the muddled plea that the morning would in fact bring a new day, that when he woke tomorrow it would actually be tomorrow.

* * *

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. A wave of sickening dread washed over him before he’d even opened his eyes. He couldn’t remember coming to bed last night, or even undressing. But perhaps he’d just been too far gone. It didn’t have to mean anything, only that he’d been so pissed off his arse he’d blacked out.

As he stumbled out of bed, not even bothering to silence the alarm first, he banged his toe on the nightstand. He bit back the curse from his lips, tasting blood. It wouldn’t be like yesterday. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it.

He rushed over to the table, and then collapsed onto a chair. The paper he’d bought yesterday was gone. He turned to look at the bottle of scotch on the shelf. Still almost full. And the jacket he’d left at the station was hanging over the back of his kitchen chair.

He sat for a minute with his head in his hands, grasping at the last shreds of disbelief he could catch hold of.

Wearily, still dressed in just his vest and pants, with the alarm clock still blaring its warning, he slipped on his shoes and jacket and walked unseeing down the street to buy a copy of The Oxford Daily Mail.

He didn’t allow himself even a glance at it until he was back in his flat with the door firmly shut behind him. He already knew what the paper’s headlines would be, what the answers to the crossword puzzle were, what date would be printed across the top. He unrolled the paper and there it was, irrefutable in black and white. Monday, February 2, 1967.

Morse called the station to say he was ill and wouldn’t be in today. Then he walked over, took the bottle down from the shelf, and set to work. At least the scotch had refilled itself overnight. Small mercies.

Once darkness fell that evening, Morse walked to the park. He sat on a bench in the freezing night air, looking up at the stars.

He would stay awake all night. He wouldn’t go home, he’d stay right here under the open sky. Whatever it was that was happening, it couldn’t get him here.

* * *

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. Morse didn’t move from the bed. He didn’t need to check the kitchen or get a paper. He knew. He hadn’t fallen asleep, only woken up. And he hadn’t come home, yet here he was.

He grabbed the shrieking alarm clock and threw it across the room. It slammed into the opposite wall and fell in a broken heap on the floor, silenced.

He pulled the covers up over his head and wept.

* * *

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. Morse reached to shut it off. He got out of bed, careful to avoid the nightstand. He brushed his teeth. He dressed. He walked to work.

Nothing had changed, of course, it was the same day, for the fifth time. He’d begun tallying them. But he couldn’t sit at home again spiraling into insanity. He craved the familiar routine of work. He needed to do something, anything. And he didn’t want to be alone.

The morning passed. Morse sat at his desk. He didn’t bother with the file atop it, he couldn’t face it again. He just sat there, listening to the hum of the station, trying to anchor himself in the normalcy of it.

It was telling, perhaps, that although he was now stuck in a neverending, telescoping black hole of existential dread, no one seemed to find his behavior much different than usual.

It wasn’t until Thursday called him into his office at lunch time that anyone noticed something might be wrong.

Morse sat down opposite Thursday’s desk, looking at the ground.

“You alright?” Thursday asked.

Morse shrugged.

Thursday shook his head, and set his parchment paper package down on the desk.

Morse silently begged for him not to ask. He’d rather Thursday pull a pin on a grenade than unwrap that sandwich.

“Let’s see what’s on offer today?”

Morse brought his hands to cover his face.

“Morse?” Thursday asked with confusion, “What is it? What’s happened?”

“I think I’m losing my mind, sir,” Morse said, rubbing his hands over his eyes to try to halt the tears.

“What are you on about? You’re sharp as a tack and you know it. What’s brought this on?”

“Something’s happened, has been happening for days and days. This has all happened before, sir. This same day just keeps repeating over and over again.”

“You’ve had too much to drink last night and gotten yourself into a haze today. When’s the last time you ate anything or got a good night’s rest? Too much drink and too little sleep will play tricks on your mind. Saw it myself during the war. Go home and sleep it off and you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“But it won’t be tomorrow when I wake up. It never is. It will be today again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know,” Morse’s voice broke and he took a shuddering breath. He got up from the chair and began pacing the room wildly. “No one understands. I don’t understand. It doesn’t seem to be happening to anyone else. It’s just me. I think I’ve gone crazy. I don’t know what to do.”

Something close to fear overtook Thursday’s face. “You’ve overdone things maybe, just worked yourself up. Might help to see a doctor.”

“No!” Morse shouted. “I can’t... it won’t do any good. They’ll only shut me up. Not that it will matter much,” he gave an unhinged laugh, “I’ll still wake up in my bed in the morning.”

He turned to look at Thursday, panic glinting in his eyes. “And I’ll come in here and you’ll have forgotten all of this,” his voice rose steadily to a hysterical pitch. “And it will be cheese and pickle all over again. Five goddamn days in a row now, it’s been cheese and fucking pickle!”

There was a knock at the door and Strange peered his head round, looking concerned.

“Everything alright, sir?” He asked Thursday, his eyes roaming to look at Morse in bewilderment. The rest of the station sat silent and still as statues, their eyes fixed on the unexpected but not unwelcome excitement.

“No!” Morse spun on his heels to face Strange. “Everything isn’t alright!” He was screaming now, red faced and practically foaming at the mouth, tears running down his cheeks. “I’d have thought that would have been obvious! But no one around here notices a goddamn thing except for me!”

Morse moved towards the door and Strange stepped back, as if unsure who it was he’d come in to protect.

“The world’s gone fucking mad!” Morse shouted to the station at large, his face a caricature of rage. “We’re all trapped here, in this neverending hell and you’re all too blind or too stupid to even notice!”

Thursday had moved from his desk while Morse’s back was turned. He motioned to Strange and each gently took hold of one of Morse’s arms.

“Come on, son,” Thursday said in a quiet, calm voice. “Let’s get some air.”

A look of absolute despair crumpled Morse’s features. He began to cry again, quiet gasping sobs. Strange and Thursday started to walk him slowly out of the station.

“Back to your business,” Thursday said gruffly to the rest of the men, who were all watching with their mouths agape and eyes wide.

All except one, that is, who watched with cool interest and a gleam of understanding.

Once they were outside the station, Morse collapsed down onto a step and held his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry,” he mumbled miserably. “I didn’t mean... I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

Thursday patted Morse on the back. Strange stood silently by, his face full of pity and concern.

“Let’s get you home,” Thursday said.

At the flat, Morse was the absence of a person, a shell. Thursday took off his coat, instructed him to take off his shoes, and tucked him into bed like an overtired child. Morse just lay there silently, eyes swimming.

Once Thursday had gone, Morse sat up in bed and set the alarm clock directly in front of him. He sat unmoving, watching the dials cutting the minutes away, until the flat fell into darkness. He kept watching, until the clock struck 2 a.m.

* * *

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. He lay in bed, sewing the scraps of what he knew together. Whatever it was, it happened at 2 a.m. Whatever it was, this was the sixth time it had happened.

But why was it happening? Surely time did not screech to a halt and loop endlessly on a single day for no reason. No matter that time did not screech to a halt and loop endlessly on a single day at all, ever. The time for denying the impossible had passed.

So, then, why was this impossibility happening? Why was it happening to him and him alone? And what could he do to right it?

Maybe if he relived the day exactly as he had that first time, time would jump back on track. Maybe he could reset the day, as it were.

Why would that be the solution? Well, why not?

He would do his best to relive the day precisely as he had that first time.

Stubbing one’s toe purposely against the sharp edge of a nightstand is not pleasant, but needs must.

Morse dressed. He walked to work. He repeated the day, paying little attention to anything other than his cues, trying his best to hit his lines correctly, in the hope that timing was everything, and that time could be righted if he did things just right.

He managed to get through the work day. What must it cost a man who cannot easily pretend, whose face betrays every emotion, to act such a part, on nerves frayed to the point of snapping?

The relish and relief of that first drink of ale at the pub afterwards was well deserved.

Morse was silent and sullen as he sat with Strange and Jakes. But after all, that was only in keeping with the way he’d been the first time they’d done it.

If Jakes gave Morse an odd, searching look now and again, Morse was too lost within himself to notice.

The night wore on. Strange offered to buy another round.

As Jakes saw Strange walking back over, he lifted his pint and slid over slightly, just seconds before Strange stumbled, knocking over the drinks on the table and spilling their contents all over Morse, and the empty spot where Jakes had been.

Morse looked confused for a moment, a study in disbelief, then as realization dawned, his face reddened and contorted into a mask of rage.

He turned to look at Jakes. “You fucking bastard! You knew that was coming! It’s happening to you too!”

“So what if it is?” Jakes asked with calm indifference, taking a slow drag from his cigarette.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. The dread that had settled like a weight on his chest for the last week had lightened, just a little. Somewhere nearby someone else was also waking up to the same day for the seventh time, even if that someone was a conceited, useless prick who didn’t give a damn that the whole world had gone to hell just as long as he didn’t have a hair out of place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter and the next are going to talk quite a bit about suicide, somewhat in detail. It's suicide in a time loop, but still. This chapter also contains scenes with self-harm. Please be forewarned.

Morse’s mouth hung open, stunned, for once, into silence. Jakes had the cheek to smirk.

Seeing that smirk was all Morse needed to find his voice again.

“I thought I was the only one! I‘ve been out of my mind for six days now! And you just stood by and said shit all!”

Jakes leaned across the table, condescendingly. “Thought I’d let you calm down a bit. Didn’t really feel up to dealing with you throwing a strop on top of everything else.”

Morse narrowed his eyes and shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around what an unbelievable bastard Jakes was.

“How long have you known?”

“About this?” Jakes waved his cigarette around, the vague circling gesture indicating the total breakdown of time and logic. “Or about you?”

“Both!”

“Figured something was happening the first time the day repeated,” Jakes said, smooth as silk. “Might not be a college boy, but even I don’t fail to notice something’s off when it’s Monday twice in a row. I wondered, when you left early, but I couldn’t be sure. Wasn’t sure until yesterday when you treated the whole nick to that little show. Decided I’d just bide my time, let you get it out of your system.”

Throughout this exchange, Strange had been looking back and forth between them with the confused expression of a man who had not thought he was so drunk as to completely lose his grasp on the conversation, yet somehow finds himself adrift. For their part, Morse and Jakes seemed to have forgotten his existence entirely.

“What have you been doing all this time?” Morse demanded, in the disdainful tone he used when interrogating a particularly depraved suspect.

“This and that. Went in to work some days, tried staying awake all night but-”

“I know,” Morse interrupted. “Once it hits two a.m. it starts all over again.”

“Can’t say I’ve timed it myself, just woke up back in bed the next morning, no matter where I was or what I did.”

Morse looked poised to ask another question, but Jakes stood up.

“Come on,” Jakes nodded towards the door. “Let’s get out of here. I need some air.”

Morse rose and followed him out, leaving Strange to watch their retreating figures make their way out of the pub without so much as a goodbye. That, at least, wasn’t out of the ordinary. He shrugged and finished off his pint.

“What do you think is going on?” Morse insisted, when they were barely out the pub door. “What do you think it means?”

“Fuck if I know,” Jakes said, lighting another cigarette.

“Well, we have to figure it out. We can’t just keep doing this forever. We need to fix it.”

“Fix it?” Jakes stopped, and turned to face Morse, “ I don’t know about you but I can’t control time anymore now than I ever could.”

“So, what?” Morse’s voice rose, incensed, “ We’re just supposed to do nothing and stay stuck here forever?”

“I’m not saying that, I just don’t see the use in kicking up a fuss about something we have no control over.”

“No, of course you don’t. The world has literally stopped turning and you and I are the only ones who know it and you’re still completely fucking unphased. Don’t you care? About anything?”

“Of course I fucking care!” The cool carelessness was gone, and something fiery had snuck into Jakes’ voice. “Look, I don’t know what this is and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not gonna pretend that I do. You’re so smart, why don’t you figure it out.”

Morse shook his head in disgust. “While you sit by and what? Look ornamental at the nick and get loaded down the pub every night?”

“You’ve been sober as a judge, have you?” Peter asked snidely.

“Oh fuck off. I don’t know why I even thought you might help. I’d be better off alone than being stuck here with you.“

“Yeah, well, if anyone was gonna be stuck in this kind of high-brow, brain bend of a nightmare, it would be you. I probably just got sucked in because I happened to be nearby.”

“So it’s my fault now! You know what? Go to hell. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Morse turned and stormed off down the street.

“Pretty sure I’m already there!” Jakes called after him, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around!”

* * *

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. The dread that had settled like a weight on his chest for the last week had lightened, just a little. Somewhere nearby someone else was also waking up to the same day for the seventh time, even if that someone was a conceited, useless prick who didn’t give a damn that the whole world had gone to hell just as long as he didn’t have a hair out of place.

This morning also held the promise of a plan. He wondered that he hadn’t thought of it sooner. This was Oxford afterall. He’d consult the experts.

Many hours later, Morse sat in a stuffy, cramped office listening to a philosophy professor drone on. It was his last interview of the day, having already met with imminent professors of physics, history, and even, God help him, religion.

To each he had posed the same queries. Hypothetically, why might a time loop occur? What might it mean? And, most importantly, how could it be brought to an end?

He’d found every scholar he’d met with enthusiastic about exploring this academic conundrum. He’d also found that all of them were more interested in the sound of their own pompous voices postulating on the subject than in actually arriving at an answer. It was the sort of quandary that was particularly pleasurable to theorize on at length, as there was no chance of it ever happening, and so offered no threat of ever proving them wrong.

Professor Crisp, whose name was apt in describing his resemblance to a potato rather than his oratory abilities, seemed to remember himself suddenly, and hurried to bring his lengthy lecture to a close. “And so, time is merely a human construct, an illusion, malleable and meaningless,” he finished off.

He glanced down at his watch and began scrabbling about to gather papers into a briefcase. “I really must be going, can’t be late for my next meeting,” he called over his shoulder, as he hurried from the room.

It was dark when Morse arrived back at his flat. What a complete waste of time it had all been. Not that time mattered anymore anyway, he might as well waste it. But he’d actually dared to hope that he might finally get some answers. He was no closer to understanding what was happening than he had been a week ago when it all started. Was he really just going to be stuck here forever, completely cut off from his actual life, and yet doomed to relive this ghastly pantomime of it over and over again?

He was sick of the sight of his dreary, comfortless flat, sick of the endless grey days, of a world offering nothing but meaningless Mondays. He was even beginning to grow tired of the neverending bottle of scotch. Not to the point that he didn’t take it down from the shelf now and pour himself a glass, but still.

He had never been the optomistic sort, but the hopelessness he felt now was like nothing he’d ever known. He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it, the entire world, everything he had understood and relied upon, just suddenly gone. Would he ever again feel the summer sun on his face or watch the autumn leaves slowly change their colors? Would he ever travel somewhere farther than a day could take him? Would he ever live anything but this unspeakable, inescapable sameness?

He felt more alone and disconnected from the rest of the world than he would have imagined possible. And there was nothing to distract him because nothing he did mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.

Even Jakes, the one person who might have understood, instead treated Morse as if he were completely overreacting. Here they were, maybe the only two people on the planet this was happening to, and Jakes still made Morse feel on the outside, unwanted and abnormal.

As he neared the end of the bottle of scotch, there came a knock at the door.

He got up and opened it, to see Jakes standing in the hall, glazed with his usual ease and nonchalance. Morse wondered how Jakes always managed to look as if he belonged, no matter where he was, and how he always managed to make Morse feel like an oddity, even in his own bloody flat.

If some small part of him was comforted by the idea of having company in his current misery, he refused to acknowledge it.

He stepped aside to let Jakes in, less a welcome than a surrender.

Jakes eyed the bottle on the table but seemed to think it wiser not to comment on it.

“You weren’t in to work today. Just thought I’d come round.”

Morse gave a slight nod and sat back down at the table.

Though he hadn’t been offered a seat, Jakes sat down on the chair opposite. “So, how’d you spend the day?”

“Wasted it looking for answers,” Morse said miserably, “But there aren’t any, are there? We’re just going to be stuck here forever. There’s no escape. There’s just... nothing. Stretching on into eternity.”

Jakes looked at him silently, sizing him up. Finally he asked, “When’s the last time you actually ate anything during this day?”

“Does it matter?” Morse realized he had no idea. It wasn’t unusual for him to go a whole day without eating, but seven days was certainly a new record.

“Everything sort of resets, doesn’t it?” Morse asked, his brows furrowing with realization, running his hand along his smooth jaw line and remembering he hadn’t shaved all week, “Even our bodies?”

Jakes gave a grim nod. He seemed about to say something, and then stopped. He pulled a sandwich out from his pocket and set it on the table in front of Morse.

“Don’t even start,” he said, seeing the look on Morse’s face. “Just eat it.”

Morse grudgingly unwrapped the ham sandwich and began eating in silence.

“Lucky your liver gets a fresh start every day,” Jakes said.

Morse just rolled his eyes.

When he was done eating, Jakes continued to watch him.

“What?” Morse asked, churlishly.

“Have you done even one thing you wanted to since all this started, apart from drinking yourself into oblivion?” Jakes asked.

“I’m stuck in hell, not looking to enjoy myself. What can I do while we’re trapped here?”

“Almost anything. That’s the point.”

“The only thing I want to do is find a way out of this. Until I do that I can’t do anything else, I can’t think about anything else. I’m not like you. I can’t just pretend things are ok. ”

“And I’m having the time of my life, am I? Look, moping around like some sad sod isn’t going to fix anything. There’s no rush. Why don’t you just take a day or two off? You’ll be able to think better.”

“And what is it I’m supposed to do?”

“Whatever you want to. You don’t have to sit here alone. Why don’t you go find some company, take your mind off things? Some girls go for the depressed anemic type. I’ve seen the way they look at you. Want to take you home and feed you soup, I expect, play doctor and kiss you where it hurts.”

Morse looked affronted and shook his head. “I couldn’t do that. It would be taking advantage, they wouldn’t know it can’t lead anywhere.”

“So make up some excuse. Tell them it’s your last night in town. Tomorrow you’re leaving for the States, going to become a cowboy and ride the range.”

Morse scoffed. “Like anyone would believe that. I’m not going to lie to some girl to get her into bed. Besides, if she doesn’t remember, it won’t mean anything. It’ll be like it never happened.”

“Jesus, you really do have to make everything harder than it needs to be.”

“I just want to know why this is happening,” Morse could hear the pleading in his voice, and hated himself for it, but he was too bloody desperate to hide it. “ I can’t understand it. I don’t know what it means or how to fix it.”

“Not everything has an answer, Morse. Whatever’s going on, it isn’t your fault, and it isn’t on you to fix it.”

Morse looked up at him, grateful, but still drowning. “I can’t keep doing this."

“We’ll figure it out. Just give it some time. God knows we’ve got plenty of that.”

Morse just looked at him, too tired to argue.

“You going in to work tomorrow?” Jakes asked, leaning back in his chair.

Morse shook his head. “What’s the point?”

“Me neither,” Jakes agreed. “How about I meet you at The Lamb and Flag around seven? We can talk things over.”

“Alright,” Morse agreed wearily.

“Don’t spend the day tomorrow shut in here driving yourself crazy. Get out. Go do something.”

Morse gave a halfhearted nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jakes got up and let himself out, giving Morse a last long look before closing the door behind him.

Morse sat at the table awhile, thinking. It made him uneasy, the thought of his body forgetting what his mind remembered. Might there be some things that couldn’t be undone?

He got up and went into the bathroom. He gazed searchingly into the mirror. The eyes that stared back at him in the dim light looked desperate and unhinged. He looked like a man with nothing left to lose.

He wouldn’t go too far, not yet. Just a test, to see what would happen.

He grabbed a razor blade from the cabinet. Christ, he wished he’d had more to drink. He looked away, focused his attention on a water stain on the bathroom wall, a rust colored splotch, the sort of Rorschach shape that might be anything if he thought hard enough about it. He thought hard about it now, as he gripped the blade and brought it to the underside of his arm, midway between his elbow and his wrist, and forced himself to press it into his skin in a firm, burning line, making him grit his teeth and clench his muscles and bringing tears to his eyes. Not too deep. Not yet. Just enough to draw blood, enough to leave a mark, just enough to feel it.

His eyes still trained on the wall, he blindly rinsed the blade in the sink and grabbed a flannel to wrap around his arm. He sat on the edge of his bed, pressing the cloth into the cut to stop the blood flow.

After a few minutes had passed, and the bleeding had lessened, he grabbed the bandages from the bathroom and wrapped his arm, only risking quick glances at the wound. Then he threw the bloodied flannel in the bin and got into bed. His arm throbbed, a painful reminder of his stubborn heartbeat. The ache of it felt more real than anything had in days.

* * *

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded. He could tell, without looking, that the cut was gone. Where a tender, sharp pain had radiated last night he now felt nothing. He brought his arm up and examined the skin. No bandage. No mark. No trace of what he’d done.

He had expected as much. Still, it was unnerving, more than he’d thought it would be. It made him feel inhuman and insane, trapped in a body that no longer belonged to him. It made him want to scream.

He lay in bed, thinking. There might still be an exception to the rule. An action that couldn’t be undone. A way out.

Morse didn’t leave his flat all day. The thought of going anywhere sent a creeping anxiety through him. To have to pretend that things were okay, that this wasn’t happening, to interact with people going about their lives completely oblivious to this hell he couldn’t escape from, it would only make things worse. He felt completely lost and unmoored, as though there were no longer a single truth he could hold on to, as if he might walk down the street and accidentally step off the edge of the world.

When it was time to meet Jakes, he forced himself to walk to the pub. Close by, but not the usual after work haunt. It wouldn’t do to run into anyone from the nick when they’d both called in, wouldn’t matter by tomorrow, but it would still make tonight more difficult.

As Morse walked in, he saw Jakes already sitting at a table, two pints in front of him. He slid one over and gave a nod to Morse as he sat down.

“You look like hell,” Jakes commented, “You just sat there stuck inside your own head all day, didn’t you?”

“What does it matter?” 

“Doesn’t matter to me, just don’t see why you want to go making yourself more miserable than you have to be. We’re stuck here either way, there’s no rule you’ve got to torture yourself the whole time.”

“Sorry if I’m casting a pall over your evening," Morse said scornfully.

Jakes gave a hollow laugh and shook his head, then lit a cigarette.

They sat and drank in empty silence. What was there to say, really?

“So, what now?” Jakes finally asked.

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re so set on figuring this out, what’s next?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better to just let things be for a while.”

Jakes eyed him with an assessing look that made Morse squirm. As if he were a suspect Jakes was trying to size up.

“Makes no difference to you, right?” Morse asked, “You think I’m just wasting my time anyway. You seem happy enough with things as they are.”

“I wouldn’t say happy,” Jakes said evenly, “I’m getting by. What else can I do?”

“Nothing,” Morse said resignedly, “Best way to look at it, really.”

He looked over at Jakes for a moment, a flash of concern in his eyes. “You’re alright then?”

“We’ll both be alright,” Jakes answered. “We’ll figure it out. Just have to calm down. Give it some time.”

Morse nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Jakes eyed him sharply.

Morse looked down at the table. He took a last swig of his pint and sighed.

“I think I’ll head--” he began.

Just as Jakes cut in insistently with, “Stay for another.”

“Think I’ll call it a night," Morse said. "Thanks for the drink. And for... well... just thanks.”

Jakes nodded, jaw tight, dark eyes wary. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Morse nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes.

“Mind how you go, then,” Jakes said.

Something in his voice twisted Morse’s insides. He’d always hated lying. He turned, and walked out of the pub, refusing to look behind him.

As he walked through the frigid night Morse felt guilt gathering around his shoulders. But what good would it do to tell Jakes? It would only complicate things. Jakes would be fine, either way. He was always fine. Some people just knew how to float through life, how to not be dragged under by it, but Morse wasn’t one of them. He’d only be an extra weight for Jakes to carry. Jakes would be better off without him.

He slowed as he reached the station and glanced around. There was no one about, there never was at this time of night. It was far from the first time he’d come back to the nick when it was dark and deserted, when his mind had caught on a problem, until nothing else existed but the solving of it. He told himself this was no different, really, just a problem he couldn’t escape and a possible solution.

It was almost alarmingly easy. He had a key to the station. He knew what he needed and where it would be. It wasn’t as if he had to worry about repercussions if he was caught or if anything was discovered missing. Somehow his hand still trembled though, when he lifted it up and slid it into his waistband, the cold weight of it pressing against his back with terrifying reassurance.

He slipped quietly out the back door and made sure it was locked behind him. Then he turned, and saw the orange glow of a cigarette in the darkness of the alley.

Jakes was a few feet away, leaning back against the building, one foot casually propped against the wall, as if he had all the time in the world. Which, of course, he did.

“Wotcha.”

Morse took in a shaky breath, shame and betrayal and anger tensing his muscles and stinging his eyes. He said nothing, just walked past. He felt like a child sulking after being discovered in a game of hide and seek. Of course Jakes would know. Of course he’d catch him out this way, make him feel like a bloody fool.

“Going to off yourself?” Jakes said behind him. “Just leave me here and not say a word?”

Morse stopped still. He didn’t say anything, didn’t turn around.

He heard Jakes’ footsteps coming up behind him, until he felt him standing close beside him. He kept his eyes on the ground.

“It won’t work,” Jakes said simply, an undertow of pity in his voice.

“It might,” Morse argued, looking up at him. “Maybe it will fix things. Or maybe I’ll at least be...” He shrugged.

“I’m telling you it won’t work,” Jakes insisted.

“You don’t know that!”

“I do know.”

“How?”

“I tried it.”

Morse's eyes lit with fury. “What do you mean, you tried it?”

“Killed myself, didn’t I?" Peter said, flicking his cigarette to the ground. "But clearly it didn’t stick.”

Morse scoffed with disbelief, “Are you fucking kidding me? When?”

Jakes sighed. “Three days in.”

“Three days in! But you're fine, you hardly even seem to care that you're stuck here. Why would you do that?”

“Why do you think? I thought I was going crazy. I panicked, okay? I didn’t want to be locked up somewhere, not even for a night.”

“But you hadn’t even talked to me, you said you suspected, why the hell didn’t you at least come see me first?”

“I didn’t know if it was happening to you. I couldn’t think. I didn’t want anyone to know I was off my head. I couldn’t just stop by your place and ask if you’d noticed it was Monday for the third day in a row.”

“But even when you did know you didn’t say anything! You acted like I was crazy for getting worked up, like you were just cool as a fucking cucumber the whole time. You are so full of shit, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, you seemed to be having a hard enough time of it. I didn’t think that telling you there was literally no escape would help.”

“How?” Morse demanded.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how did you kill yourself?”

“Broke into the zoo and climbed into the tiger’s cage. Circle of life.”

Morse's eyes grew wide as he teetered on the edge of shocked belief for a moment, then narrowed in disgust.

“Glad you find this so amusing. You’re such a prick.”

Jakes swallowed and crossed his arms. “Gun to the temple,” he said softly, his voice thick, “same as you’re planning.”

“And what happened?” Morse asked slowly.

“What happened is I blew my fucking brains out, Morse, and then I woke up in my bed the next morning.”

Morse felt something stir in his chest, a sort of raw ache. He couldn’t do this right now. He couldn’t deal with any of this.

“Well just because it didn’t work when you did it, that doesn’t mean it won’t work when I do,” he argued desperately, taking a few steps forward. “You said yourself it’s probably my fault we’re stuck here.”

“I didn’t say that. And I’m telling you it won’t work.” 

Jakes looked so earnest, a little ashamed even, uneasy in his own skin. Morse had never seen Jakes look that way before, like he cared. But it was too late for that now. 

“You don’t know that. And even if it doesn’t, what’s the harm in trying? Either it works and things go back to normal or it works and I’m dead and out of this nightmare or it doesn’t work and I end up right back where we are now. At least I’ll know.”

“If it works and you’re dead where the hell do you think that leaves me?” Jakes moved to stand in front of Morse, not blocking him exactly, but making it so Morse couldn't avoid looking at him, so he couldn't just ignore what Jakes was telling him.

“I don’t know,” Morse said quietly. “Maybe it will fix things for you.”

“Or maybe it will just leave me to deal with this all on my own.”

“You said yourself you don’t think it will work. You think I’ll end up back in my bed in the morning, just like you did. So why not at least try.”

“Because it isn’t that simple. Maybe I didn’t stay dead but I still died, Morse. I still held a gun to the side of my fucking head and pulled the trigger. And I still remember every goddamned second of it. That part doesn’t go away. Even if it gets reversed, you still killed yourself. You still feel it when it happens, and you still have to live with the memory of it. And I’m telling you that you don’t want that shit in your head. Things are bad enough as it is. Don’t do this.”

Morse felt the tears welling in his eyes. “I can’t keep doing this, Peter,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I really am, but I have to know.”

They were silent a moment, staring at one another, faces standing out white against the darkness, breath coming out in puffs in the icy air.

“Okay,” Jakes said with a sigh.

“Okay?”

“If you have to, then you have to. I get that. But don’t do it like this. If you’re doing it, you aren’t going to do it on your own. We’ll do it together.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean whether we both die for good or we somehow fix whatever the hell this is or we wake up the next morning still stuck here, we’re doing it together.”

“You don’t have to do this. I’m not asking you to. I don’t want you to.”

“I get it. I wanted out too. I still do. Maybe it will work if we do it together. Maybe it just takes both of us to make it stick.”

“Peter, I can’t let you do this.”

“And I can’t let you do it. So either we forget the whole thing and you promise me you won’t do it, or we do it together.”

“That isn’t fair. You don’t need this, you’re fine. Just because I can’t cope that doesn’t mean you should have to do something you don’t want to.”

“I think it’s pretty clear I’m not coping so well myself, seeing as how I’ve already tried it. I don’t want to be stuck here either. And I’m not going to be left here on my own. We’ll do it together. We’ll get out. Or we won’t. But either way no one’s getting left behind.”

Morse took a deep breath and gave a slight nod. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Peter agreed. “Now gimme that gun.”

Morse swallowed, then slowly reached his hand into his jacket to pull the gun out from behind his back. He placed it gingerly in Peter’s outstretched hand.

“Are we going to do it now?” Morse asked.

“No! Christ! I’m not going to shoot you, Morse.”

“Well then how are we going to do it?”

“I don’t know yet. But not like that. No fucking way.”

“We have to do it somehow.”

“We will. Just not tonight. I’ll come by tomorrow morning and we can figure things out, make a plan. We’ll get it settled. Just promise me you won’t do anything tonight. I mean it, I can’t be arsed with wondering whether you’ll top yourself all night. I’ll make you sit here with me until two a.m. if I have to.”

“Then we’d both freeze to death. That might work, actually,” Morse said with a quirked grin.

Jakes didn’t smile, just looked straight into Morse’s eyes, like he could see right through him, like he’d know a lie from Morse’s mouth the moment he heard it.

“Alright, I promise,” Morse said quietly.

“Okay,” Jakes said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Morse agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While it might not be apparent from this chapter, this isn't going to be all angst and despair. They will get a bit of fun in the next chapter and things will start to take a more hopeful turn. Also, they're gonna start to fall in love so...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late that night, Morse drove the only noisy piece of shit they’d been able to afford off of the deserted country lane and parked it in the middle of a grassy field. It was a minor miracle that the car had made it out of Oxford. Morse felt a twinge of revengeful delight that they’d be blowing it up soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter contains lots of talk about suicide and a suicide attempt.

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded.

He'd spent the long, dark hours awake, his imagination snaking out along the many possible paths to death. And though he’d known that it might be the last night he ever spent in his bed, somehow that wasn’t what his thoughts kept circling toward. He couldn’t stop thinking about Peter. About what Peter had done. About what Peter was going to do.

Any other time, in any sane world, Morse would never have allowed it. Even now, when what they both wanted was an end to whatever this was, the thought of an end to Peter opened up a cold, hollow pit in his stomach. But if they didn’t try, it would just loom over him, a constant question, a possible escape. He never could leave a thing alone once he’d got it into his head. There was nothing for it. They had to try.

An hour later, there was a knock on the door. Morse opened it, maybe a little too eagerly, and Jakes strolled in. They each gave an awkward nod, the previous night’s confidences reddening their cheeks and slicking their palms. Jakes set a brown paper bag down on the table.

“What’s that?” Morse asked, walking over to inspect it.

“Don’t get your hopes up, it’s nothing deadly.” Peter smirked.

Morse rolled his eyes. The familiar back and forth chipped away a little of the tension.

“Bacon butties,” Jakes said. “Brain food.”

They sat at the wobbly little table and ate in silence, chancing glances while trying to avoid meeting eyes. Morse’s stomach was twisted into such a knot that it was a wonder he managed to swallow even a mouthful.

When he could stand it no longer, Morse folded his arms and looked at Jakes expectantly. “So?”

“I don’t know.” Jakes shrugged. “I guess we need to decide how this is gonna go.”

“I’ve been thinking.” Morse hoped his voice held a certainty he didn’t feel. “Maybe our best chance is if we do it at exactly the same time.”

“Alright.” Jakes nodded.

“And I think we should try to do it at exactly two in the morning, when it all seems to reset.”

“Okay.” Jakes cocked his head to the side. “And what is it exactly you’re suggesting we do at two in the morning at exactly the same time?”

“We could get two guns...”

“No.” Jakes’ voice was firm, wielding a fierce edge. “I’m not doing that again.”

Morse looked over at him, his lips pursed in frustration. “How then?”

“We could jump off a cliff,” Jakes suggested.

“No.” Morse’s already pale face blanched whiter.

“I forgot you’ve got a thing about heights,” Peter said. “Dying is kind of the point though, I mean there isn’t exactly anything to be afraid of if that’s what you’re going for.”

“I can’t. Not like that. And anyway, we might not die at the same time even if we jump at the same time.”

“Okay. Well, I doubt you’re up for anything gory.”

Morse shook his head. They’d both seen enough bodies in the bath, wrists slit open and life spilled out. He felt sick just thinking about it.

“We could get some rope...” Jakes said tentatively.

Morse suddenly felt the contents of his stomach rising. He stood up abruptly and shook his head in disgust, his hands slamming down on the tabletop. “Jesus! This is so fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Jakes’ deep brown eyes flashed. “ _It is_. Listen, we don’t have to do this. We can forget all about it.”

“No! We can’t. I can’t. Either way, I’ve got to know now. It’s just... talking about it like this...”

“It isn’t going to be pleasant, Morse. That’s not how this works.”

“I know.” Morse’s voice was low with resignation. He sank back down into his chair, shoulders sagging and head hung, as if carrying an anchor around his neck. He moved a hand up to tug on his earlobe, his brows drawn together in thought. He couldn’t stop picturing the crime scene they’d leave behind. And it wasn’t his body he saw broken beyond repair. It was Peter’s. Who was only doing this because of him. Fuck. _Fuck_. They needed to decide on something and do it. The less time spent thinking about it the better.

“What about a hose in the exhaust pipe of a car?” Morse struggled to keep his voice calm.

“We might not go at the same time. And we can’t time it. It needs to be something instantaneous. Bam. Done.”

Morse raised his eyebrows, imploring, but Jakes cut in.

“I know. I know a gun is exactly what we’re looking for. But I can’t. I’m sorry. I just... can’t.”

Morse took in the firm line of Jakes’ mouth, the cut of his jaw, set tight, the tremble it still couldn’t hide. He nodded. They both fell silent again.

Then Jakes looked over, a spark in his eyes. “I think I know what we should do. I know this informant, Archie Dinsdale, did a stretch a while back for arson to collect insurance. Set off a bomb to make it look like a gas explosion.”

“ A bomb?”

“It would be quick, we could time it exactly, and we’d go at the same time.”

“But where?” Morse sounded incredulous. “How?”

“A car. We could drive it out to the country, make sure there’d be no one else around.”

“How will we get a car? Thursday has the Jag. And anyway, he’d be livid if we destroyed that car.”

Jakes gave a huff of a laugh. “Somehow I don’t think it’s the car Thursday would take issue with.”

The corner of Morse’s mouth tilted up. “I don’t think I could stand to blow it up anyway.”

Jakes smiled and shook his head. “I notice you don’t have the same compunction when it comes to yourself. Or me for that matter.”

“Peter,” Morse’s voice was raw, but Jakes lifted a hand.

“Let’s not start that, alright? I didn’t mean it. Both of us. That’s the deal.”

Morse took a deep breath, folded his arms, and then nodded.

“We could steal a car,” Jakes said excitedly, eyes aglow with devilish delight.

Morse looked incensed. “We certainly could not! We’re police officers!”

“We’re police officers stuck in a time loop, with no consequences beyond twenty four hours. I mean, Christ, Morse, we’re planning to blow ourselves up. We’re well past breaking the law already.”

“But stealing a car is different. Surely it’s our own business if we want to kill ourselves. Stealing a car is taking from someone else. It isn’t right.”

“Alright.” Jakes sighed. “You ruin all the fun, don’t you?”

Morse pulled his mouth into an anxious frown, biting his lower lip to keep his thoughts from escaping.

Jakes softened. “Look, I’m sure we can get a rust bucket for cheap. There’s a used lot down the street from my place. I’ve got some money saved. Between us we should have enough.”

Morse took a steadying breath. “So, what? We’ll get a car and pay this criminal to make us a bomb?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. I think that pretty much sums it up.”

“I don’t know what something like that costs,” Morse said, scrabbling to find the flaw in the plan, scrubbing the back of his neck with a restless hand. “But I don’t have much.”

“I’m not up on the going rate for explosives, but it isn’t like we need to save for the future. We can spend whatever we’ve got.” Jakes cocked an eyebrow wickedly. “And I can be pretty persuasive.”

“Won’t it take more than a day to make it?”

“Don’t see why it should. I doubt Dinsdale ever really got out of the game. I wager he has all the supplies he’d need at hand already. And we don’t need anything fancy, we aren’t trying to hide anything. Just some dynamite should do the trick.”

“Okay.” Morse nodded. “I think that’s what we should do then.”

“Okay.” Peter said with a decisive nod of his head. “Then let’s go out with a bang.”

Late that night, Morse drove the only noisy piece of shit they’d been able to afford off of the deserted country lane and parked it in the middle of a grassy field. It was a minor miracle that the car had made it out of Oxford. Morse felt a twinge of revengeful delight that they’d be blowing it up soon.

He turned to look at Peter. He was sitting back stiffly in the passenger seat, ominously still, face impossible to read in the darkness. He’d insisted on Morse driving and on carrying the device himself. His hands were curled tightly around the bundle of explosives resting on his lap. Morse had never before thought Peter’s fingers looked pale and fragile, but they did now. He felt a sudden anguished urge to take the bundle from Peter, to relieve him of this awful burden he’d saddled him with.

It had been so horribly easy, unfolding so quickly, the plans keeping them occupied, so that there was little time to dwell on the reality of what those plans would culminate in. It had been a mostly silent, tense ride out to the country. They’d only exchanged a few words, to agree on a location.

Morse looked down at his watch. Five minutes to go. They had thought it best not to leave too much time to wait around beforehand.

Peter gingerly set the explosives on the dash and got his lighter out. He lit a cigarette, hands shaking, then clutched the lighter tightly in his hand.

Morse had sat alone with Peter in a car more times than he could count. But it felt different now. He was so _aware_ of Peter. Of how close he was. He listened to Peter’s breathing, the soft rhythm sending a shiver up his spine. Morse bit his cheeks and tried not to look over.

There was nothing technical about it. Dinsdale had assured them it would take no more than 30 seconds to go off once they’d lit the fuse.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Morse’s voice sounded strange and strangled in his ears. “You don’t have to. Really. You can get out right now, Peter.”

“I’m not getting out of the car, Morse.” Peter wasn’t shouting, but his voice was so icy Morse felt as though he’d been slapped. “Jesus, we’ve been over this haven’t we? Just tell me when to light the fucking fuse.”

“Okay.” Morse swallowed thickly.

Peter sighed and turned to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Just tense, you know?”

Morse nodded. He hoped Peter couldn’t make out the dampness of his cheeks in the dark.

“Are _you_ sure? About this, I mean?” Peter asked, rolling down the window to flick out his cigarette.

Morse didn’t know anymore. Didn’t know anything anymore. But he nodded.

“One minute now.” Morse’s voice trembled. He was concentrating very hard on his breathing, on his heartbeat in his ears, on the watch in his sweating hand.

Peter gave a nod out the windscreen. The sky was clouded over. No moon to be seen. No stars. But he looked over at Morse and murmured, “Second star to the right and straight on till morning?”

Morse stopped trying to hold back the tears. “Now,” he said, and Peter sparked the fuse resting on the dash in front of him to life, and then sat back, right hand gripping the side of his seat so tightly his knuckles glowed white.

Morse watched the fuse burning down, heard its quiet, insidious sizzle.

His left hand shot out and grabbed hold of Peter’s. He felt Peter’s fingers grasp tightly around his, holding on. He squeezed his eyes shut.

There was an explosion of sound. An assault of light. A fraction of a second of searing, unspeakable pain.

* * *

The alarm on Morse’s nightstand sounded.

He jolted awake, torn from a vivid nightmare and plunged into the cold shock of waking. His breath came in quick, frantic gasps. His entire body was rigid with tension, muscles tight, jaw clenched, toes curled. He felt acutely aware of every particle of his being, each mechanism in the machine of his aliveness. He made himself take in a deep breath, swallowed down the sickening fear crowding his throat, and listened to the desperate thud of his heart.

He was alive. But that hadn’t been a nightmare. He had died. He had—

The phone rang. It took Morse a moment to register the sound above the clang of the alarm clock and the dizzy swirling of his thoughts, a longer moment still to actually process what he heard.

 _Peter_.

Morse stumbled out of bed, slammed his hand down on the alarm clock, and half ran to pick up the phone.

“Hello?” He answered breathlessly.

“You alright?” Peter asked over the line.

“I... um...” Morse swallowed. Couldn’t find the words. Didn’t know the answer.

“It’s okay,” Peter said. “You’re okay.”

His voice was so gentle Morse hardly recognized it. He found himself wondering how Peter looked just then, when his words sounded like that.

“Just take it easy, alright? It takes some time to shake it off. I can come by if you like.”

“Okay,” Morse replied, still dazed.

“Okay. Just stay put. Try not to think too much. I’ll be there soon,” Peter said, and hung up the phone.

Morse stood a minute with the receiver gripped in his shaky hand, before looking down at it as if surprised at its existence, and then hanging it up.

He walked back and sat down on the edge of the bed. They had done it. They had blown themselves up, for Christ’s sake. They had _died_. Except they hadn’t. And he hadn’t even asked Peter if he was alright. They were stuck here, wherever this was, whatever this was. There was no escape.

He thought back to that moment just before the blast. He had... _Fuck_. He had grabbed Peter’s hand. And Peter had held his right back. What did that mean? Nothing. It couldn’t mean anything, not to Peter. He’d probably just pitied Morse for his cowardice.

How was he supposed to face Peter now? What was it you said to someone after you convinced them to blow themselves up in solidarity with your mental frailty and then _grabbed their fucking hand_ before the bomb exploded?

  
Morse had managed to dress, at least, by the time he heard Peter knocking.

He opened the door. Peter looked at him a moment, appraisingly. His expression was enough to tell Morse that he probably looked as wrecked as he felt. Peter didn’t say anything though, just walked in.

“Are you alright?” Morse asked, as Peter made his way in to sit at the table.

“Yeah.” Peter gave a quick nod. “I knew what to expect. Well, sort of. How about you? The first time was... really fucked up.”

“Yeah.” Morse agreed. “It is.” He walked over and sat down across from Peter, gaze on the floor, then began to rub his still shaking hands anxiously against his knees.

“I’m so sorry,” Morse said miserably, feeling panic swelling up in his chest. “You were right. I put you through all of that for nothing. We’re going to be stuck here like this forever and there’s nothing we can do and I can’t keep doing this. I _can’t_. But there’s no choice because we can’t even fucking die. And we are never ever trying that again anyway. And I can’t even keep track of how long it’s been anymore and there’s no way to keep a record because everything just resets. I could tally the days into my fucking skin and it wouldn’t make a difference. We’re just going to be left adrift in time. Always.” Morse was visibly shaking now, breath ragged and eyes wide. “There’s no escape, it’s just going to be this over and over again and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to figure it out. I just can’t fucking figure it out and—”

“Morse,” Peter cut in firmly, reaching out a hand to grip Morse’s shoulder. “Morse, look at me.”

Morse stilled at the touch, and looked up into Peter’s face, struggling to take in a breath.

“We’re going to get out of this.” Peter’s voice was commanding, almost stern. “We are. Just because dying didn’t end it, that doesn’t mean nothing will. But you’re right that you can’t keep doing what you have been. You’re going to have to try to let it go—”

Morse shook his head, lips trembling, and took in a breath that was almost a sob.

“Listen to me.” Peter’s gaze was steady. “We aren’t giving up. But you can’t go on like this. And I can’t do this alone. We will fix this. We will figure it out. But we’re going to take a few days off, okay? Just a rest, Morse, until we can think again, alright?”

Morse nodded, swallowed, trying very hard not to cry. Peter slowly drew his arm away and sat back in his chair.

“I just...” Morse fought to keep his voice steady. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I know other people can let things go but I can’t.”

Peter cracked a wry smile. “So I’ve noticed.”

Morse didn’t smile back, just shrugged. “Time has stopped. I can’t just forget that.”

“Well then,” Peter leant forward. “Let’s do something we can only do because time has stopped.”

“What do you mean? Like what?”

“I don’t know, like something that we couldn’t normally do.”

“Like steal a car and blow ourselves up? I mean, Jesus, what else do you think we should do? Rob a bank?”

“I didn’t exactly have you pegged as the bank robbing type. We just need a distraction, something to take our minds off everything for a while. It doesn’t have to be against the law, just something you’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t because of what people would think or because it would get you into trouble. Though I guess you do shit you get into trouble for all the time anyway.”

“See, this doesn’t even apply to me.” This time Morse allowed a stilted smile.

“Come on, at least think about it. There’s got to be something you’ve always wanted to do.”

Morse was silent, not even trying to think of anything really, more just sulking. But then—

Something in his face must have given him away, because Peter smiled smugly. “You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?”

“No,” Morse said stubbornly.

“You have. I can tell.”

Morse shook his head and looked at the floor. “It’s stupid,” he said quietly. “You’ll laugh.”

“Stupid is exactly what we’re aiming for here. I won’t laugh. I promise.”

Morse’s cheeks reddened. He knew Peter would think it was ridiculous, knew it would only prove that Peter was right about what a boring, stuck up, goody two shoes he was. But he had always wanted to... “I’ve always wanted to walk on the lawn,” Morse admitted.

“What?” Peter asked, clearly completely confused.

“At Lonsdale, when I was up. You can only walk on the grass in the quad if you’re a Fellow. And something about it, it’s so arbitrary and pretentious... I always had this urge to just stomp right across the grass. But I couldn’t, of course.”

Peter was pressing his lips together, clearly trying very hard not to smile.

“You’re laughing. I knew you’d laugh.”

“I’m not laughing!” Peter said with a grin. “It’s just that there are no consequences here. We could literally do anything. And you want to walk on a patch of grass.”

“Never mind.” Morse scowled. “Forget I said anything.”

“No fucking way. We are absolutely doing it.”

“But it’s so stupid! And it’s freezing out. And the grass will be covered in snow anyway.”

“We’re doing it, Morse. Get your coat and scarf on.”

They walked under the stone archway and out into the quad. The milky late morning sun was barely visible in the slate sky, offering no more color than the snow dusted pavement and grass, an endless world of white and grey. A few students scurried quickly by, but the icy air ensured no one was hanging about outside any longer than necessary. The wind brought stinging tears to Morse and Peter’s eyes, their noses and cheeks reddened in the frosty air. The blush in Morse’s cheeks wasn’t only due to the cold, adding to the glow was mortification over having such a childish whim. Still, beneath the embarrassment he felt a bright thrill of anticipation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything for the sake of fun.

Morse glanced over at the alcove where the porter always stood, keeping an eagle eye on the goings on around the campus. He seemed to be occupied at the moment reprimanding a forlorn looking student. Morse looked over at Peter, who was attempting to blow warmth into his cupped hands. “You ready?” Peter asked.

Morse bit the side of his mouth, but a smile broke out all the same. He felt completely idiotic, heart pounding. This was ridiculous. And stupid. And so exhilarating he felt electrified. He nodded and gave another quick glance around, standing at the edge of the lawn.

Very deliberately, he lifted his right foot and carefully stepped down upon the grass.

He heard Peter laugh behind him and turned. “Oh, shut up!” Morse said, laughing.

Quickly, before he could think too much about it, he stepped his other foot onto the lawn, so that the whole of him was standing on the grass. He looked back towards Peter. “You too!” He urged. “Come on!”

Peter casually stepped both feet onto the grass to stand beside him. “This it?” He whispered.

Morse looked at him, meeting the challenge in his eyes. He walked a few steps further out onto the grass, until he was a quarter of the way across the lawn, then he looked back at Peter. Peter cocked his brows and tilted his head to the side, as if impressed, and then stomped the few steps to stand beside Morse again, nudging him lightly on the shoulder. Morse nudged back, and then Peter ran to the middle of the quad, Morse on his heels, out of breath and grinning like mad. Morse reached Peter and gave him a little shove, enough to tumble Peter over onto the snowy lawn. He lay there, leaning on his elbows in the snow.

For a moment they were still, silent, the whole world seeming to stop, the air bright with this unnameable magic, with something suddenly almost visible.

And then Peter pulled Morse down onto the grass alongside him, their laughter ringing out across the empty quad like crazed bells.

“Oh, Jesus, they’ll be coming for us and throwing us out on our arses!” Morse gasped between fits of laughing. Peter just shook his head, his smile spreading all the way up to his glinting dark eyes. And without thinking Morse lay all the way back in the snow, the cold flakes settling into his hair and creeping inside his scarf and up his coat sleeves. Without warning, he began to windmill his arms and legs out at his sides.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Peter laughed.

“Snow angels!” Morse was laughing so hard now he could barely speak. Wordlessly, Peter lay down and did the same, their frozen, numbed fingers brushing together when the breadth of their snowy wings met.

A stern voice amplified by a megaphone cut through their reverie. A figure in black approached, taking outraged steps across the quad. Peter was on his feet in seconds. He reached down to pull Morse up. And then they were running, breathless and laughing, slipping and sliding across the icy pavement, bursting from the college grounds and back out into the street.

They were silent on the walk back to Morse’s flat, only exchanging a sideways glance and grin and shake of the head every now and then. Morse had been right. It had been ridiculous and stupid. But Peter had been right too, Morse’s head was full of a million swirling thoughts and questions, and not one had to do with the fact that it would be Monday again tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for inevitable ridiculous inaccuracies in regards to blowing up a car. I know absolutely nothing about explosives. I googled car bombs for a bit but gained no useful information and felt like a terrorist.
> 
> I don’t know why I can’t stop writing fluffy snow scenes. All my fics are turning into a cheesy Christmas movie apparently.
> 
> I have a feeling that this fic is going descend into shameful fluff from here on out, so be forewarned ;)


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